Still Learning
by BC
Summary: Tony doesn't *like* Steve. He sees Steve for who he really is, and it frustrates him to no end that he can't seem to communicate his point of view to anyone. Funnily enough, the feeling's mutual. Stony slash.
1. Say Something

Disclaimer: Don't own them. Not getting paid for this.

Summary: Tony doesn't *like* Steve. He sees Steve for who he really is, and it frustrates him to no end that he can't seem to communicate his point of view to anyone. Funnily enough, the feeling's mutual.

Warnings: slash, (lots and lots of) profanity

A/N: I've watched the movie, and the subtle but undeniable homoerotic tension between Steve and Tony's _there_. It's canon. I just wanted to state that.

So… this was supposed to be a moody, angsty story about Steve. Tony – in his typical egomaniac narcissistic way – turned it into sort-of character study of himself. The bastard. Nevertheless, there's enough Steve to justify the title, which is stolen from Robbie Williams' _Advertising Space_ – which is wholly, completely, absolutely and undeniably Steve Rogers' theme song. It is.

Also, it's done (second part to be uploaded within a week), and I don't intend to write anything else in this universe. Hopefully, you'll enjoy it anyway.

Brynn

x

Part One: Say Something

x

Tony likes money, but he's not so attached to it that he'd think twice before splurging.

Once the Tower's inhabitable again, he gets into the habit of once a fortnight calling every member of the team who's around and free for dinner. Alright – so it's JARVIS who calls them, and who alerts Tony to the fact that 'dinner's tomorrow' and then that 'dinner's today' to make sure that Tony sleeps at least four hours before he has to deal with those people.

It's not that he dislikes them (anymore) or that they're liable to kill him and hide his corpse so they won't have to suffer his presence (anymore). Good food, some joint training (Tony swears it's been team-building in disguise, no matter that the patterns of bruises would suggest otherwise) and the occasional crisis have brought them together often enough that they've learnt civility. They're like a reality show about dysfunctional people, only most of them are the results of experiments and the rest just born superhuman in some aspects (like Tony). Some of them click better, some worse.

It's another generic dinner (Thor's absent, but the rest of them have come) when one of those more problematic tensions comes to a head. Tony's just set down his fork and given up on the rest of his spaghetti, reaching instead for the whisky decanter, when the chatter between Bruce and Spangles comes to a halt, and Romanov laughs.

"You're definitely correct, Doctor," she tells Bruce, who twitches a little but graciously allows her to steal the spotlight.

The Cap lets her teasing (for that is what it obviously is) roll off him. "It is but one of the many aspects of this age I don't feel comfortable with."

Now Tony's curious and mentally cursing himself for not having paid attention.

Barton shrugs. "You should be glad. They are a lot more sympathetic to you than to… Stark, for example."

The Cap glances at Tony for just an instance. Then he's drawn back into the discussion.

"We could use some of that good rep," Bruce grumbles good-naturedly.

"What's your secret?" Barton mock-inquires, mostly just to hear whatever wisecrack will fall out of Steve's mouth.

Romanov leers at her buddy. "Did you _look at him_?"

Frankly, she does this to make Steve blush, because Spangles can keep his cool through Hell and high water, but pay him a personal compliment and he's a very, very young man.

Tony looks at the guy. Sure, there's a lot to look at. In fact, as far as fashion mags go, the Cap's probably prime front page material, just dress him in half-open jeans falling off his ass and have him look straight at the camera. Perfect.

Still, Tony's not into him. He normally goes after birds, and when he's – rarely – in the mood for something _maler_, his type is so completely different that Steve doesn't even show up on his radar as a potential fuck-buddy. The Cap's a teammate at best, and a self-righteous smart-aleck asshat whose face Tony really wants to break in at worst. So, yeah. No dirty thoughts about Uncle Sam at the dinner table.

The problem, Tony muses, lifting a tumbler of whisky to his mouth and gulping it down with ease of decades' practice, _the problem_ is not _looking_ at Steve. The shit starts hitting the fan when you _listen_ to the man. Sure, he's naïve. (Only he's not, he's just fucking _young_, and Tony's just recently realized that and, boy, was that a nasty surprise.) Sure, he's kind of retardedly clueless about everything newer than Coca-Cola. (He's also smarter than Tony would ever have guessed, and his learning speed is just as ridiculous as the bubble of anachronism that encapsulates him.) And, naturally, he can do no wrong, and if he incidentally steps a toe out of the stupid lines of moral and ethical correctness he's drawn for himself, he goes on a guilt-trip to the end of the universe.

Too much sheer _fucking_ goodness in that guy.

"Belongs in a fucking museum," Tony mutters, and suddenly he's the target of several displeased and/or disgusted stares. Not like anyone would ever have him figured out enough to even bother looking past the obvious.

"Funny _you_ should be mentioning age, Stark," Romanov snipes. "How goes your fifth decade on the planet?"

There's too much sarcasm and too little substance, so Tony smirks like he knows all the secrets of life and pours himself another shot.

"I imagine you would not like anyone bringing up your enforced stay in… wherever it was you weren't so keen on staying," Barton points out, but at least he's talking about something, and not just flapping his tongue and making pointless noise.

Bruce out of the corner of his eye looks at the light of Tony's arc reactor shining through his t-shirt, and then pretends to return his attention to his plate.

Fuck them all very much, Tony decides, pouring himself a third shot – where did the previous one go? Neither of them has ever stepped into a museum, he'd just bet. Not that he's eager on expositions and shit, but history, man – how the hell do they expect to know anything about anything if they don't bother to look over their shoulders? Captain America is one of the fucking support pillars of the last seventy years of history of their country, and for all their heralded patriotism they don't have a clue _why_.

Tony knows why. It's the same reason why Steve should be preserved and put on a pedestal and gawked at by little kids all day while the tour guide would prattle on about honor and valor and candor and whatever the fuck Steve was about. Courage. _Sacrifice_.

God-fucking-dammit.

Not enough alcohol, Tony decides, and usurps the bottle. Whisky. Good whisky, even – not like it matters, because his taste-buds are as good as burnt out and he could just as well drink industrial alcohol – seeing as Anthony Edward Stark is a billionaire, he only drinks good whisky. That's the way things are.

Tony ignores Romanov's grimace, and the woman swiftly turns to Barton and strikes up a conversation about a date at a range or something. ("…is the left decocking lever and reversible magazine catch…" "…talking about the ambidextrous manual safety-") Sonofabitch, assassins really do have one-track minds, don't they?

Bruce communes with his plate of spaghetti.

Tony regrets that Thor's not here to bother. He regrets that Coulson's not here, fullstop. He's a bastard for thinking about Coulson only when he needs someone to act as a shield between himself and Mr Spangled, but he's never pretended to himself (or anyone else) that he wasn't an asshole, so he forgives himself. Also, there's alcohol. He's got to pity Cap for that particular case of resistance to toxic substances.

"The country seems to agree with you," the Cap admits quietly, drinking deeply from his tall glass – drinking water, because he's pathetic (_wholesome_) like that – and trying to hide how disconcerted and, fuck it, downright despondent he feels.

Tony follows the man's line of sight to the screen mounted on the wall above the liquor cabinet. The angle's for shit, but he sees enough of a reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window behind Steve to know that they're featuring Captain America again on whatever the TV show is.

It's not like the Cap even goes anywhere in person. They've got a few audio and video recordings of him, some paparazzi pics and a bunch of e-mails from that one time before Tony had re-secured his account, mixed together with ancient footage and photos from the forties. There's only the thinnest surface of Steve Rogers captured in these spots, and it's a fucking pity.

That's actually what Tony's been trying to talk about. Of course, being the only person in existence as smart as he is (no offence to Bruce, who is awesome for talking science, but not so much about people – not that Tony's expert on people, but at least they don't piss him off green), no one gets what he's trying to say. No one gets even that he's trying to say something. They just write him off as an obnoxious jerk-wad by nature.

_Great_ friends. _Great_ team.

Oh, fuck – is he having an emo moment?

He snorts into the glass, almost inhaling some of the whisky.

Steve manages to tear his eyes away from the screen to glance at him (probably making sure Tony's not dying, the terminal do-gooder).

"The country understands jack-shit," Tony mutters under his breath, attracting Bruce's attention, but fortunately passing under Romanov's and Barton's radars (they're too busy flirting via an exchange of the particulars of their favourite death-dealing toys). Steve seems torn between watching the rest of the segment and going through another bout of let's-try-to-figure-Tony-out, so Tony helps him decide by saying: "They're stealing bits and pieces of you to present to the masses for the sole reason of making money. Three guesses of how I know _that_, and the first two don't count."

The corners of the Cap's mouth quirk up the tiniest bit.

Tony half-smirks. He doesn't feel like smirking much, but the whisky helps sort-of detach his conscious from the consequences, and fuck it all, maybe he can manage to admit to himself that Steve's the only person in the room with the slightest chance of getting it. It's because Steve once honestly, _earnestly_ believed that Tony deserved to be hated, and every time he's stumbled over evidence to the contrary he's had to have a fight with himself to accept it. After a while he's started seeing Tony similarly to how Tony sees himself.

"You would know all about being a celebrity _and_ all about making money," the Cap replies quietly enough to not disrupt Romanov's and Barton's verbal foreplay.

"And the third guess?" Tony teases.

He's unprepared for Steve's bitterly amused: "You _would_ understand me."

Tony chokes. The last gulp of alcohol goes down the wrong pipe and, shit, that stuff burns. He tears up and barely manages to set the tumbler onto the table before he bends over and breaks into a serious coughing fit.

He's vaguely aware of the eye-rolls and exasperated remarks. Something about the evil of alcohol and about Tony's vices. Someone punches him in the back – Bruce, Tony's quite certain – and breathing becomes a little more possible. The tear-tracks on his face are somewhat embarrassing, and Tony still feels shaky, but he's not in danger of suffocating anymore.

"Thanks," he grumbles to Bruce, who gives him a patent _Bruce_ wan smile in return and scrutinizes him for long-term damage. Having found none, the good Doctor pats Tony's shoulder and returns to his chair.

"With how much exercise you get, one would assume you could drink without killing yourself," Barton muses, and Tony's really not in the mood for worry-disguising banter. Maybe next time.

Romanov snorts and mutely offers him a glass of water.

Tony shakes his head. He doesn't need a glass. He needs at least a pool, so he can drown himself in it.

How obvious has he been?

He stands and, hoping they can't see how his limbs still tremble in the aftershocks of the coughing fit, he walks in the direction of the nearest bathroom. It's not their first visit to the Tower. They can find their way out – or to the guest bedrooms. And if they can't, they'll ask JARVIS. No problem. They don't need him to hold their damn hands.

On a totally unrelated note, Tony's only a little hyperaware of the Cap's eyes glued to his back, and he doesn't cringe much when he realizes that the guy probably knows that sometimes Tony has to use some pretty hardcore reasoning to convince himself he doesn't need anyone holding his hand. Doesn't _want_ anyone. That he'd absolutely hated if anyone tried. Or even suggested it. Or…

Oh – bathroom. Right. Tony returns two steps and enters the room. JARVIS has the lights on already, and the amount of gleaming and glinting surfaces very nearly blinds Tony. Why does he have to be a megalomaniac again? Sometimes that shit's just _so_ impractical.

Too fucking many mirrors. Tony knows he's a sexy hunk of a man – he doesn't need mirrors to prove that to himself. He especially doesn't need them to show him his blood-shot eyes or the way his pickled brain has him staring a little _beyond_ himself, like he's finally gone round the bend.

Which he knows he has, of course. He's gone round quite a few bends, quite a few times. He knows there's practically no point in _looking_, so he _listens_.

There are footsteps, and he doesn't need to ask, but he figures it might be prudent. "JARVIS, how unsafe is my passage to my bedroom?"

"Mr Rogers poses no threat to you, sir," JARVIS replies, sounding a lot like he's humoring Tony.

Hooray for the sarcastic A.I. Tony amazes even himself with how awesome he is.

Like many (many, _many_) times before in his life, he utilizes the liquid courage flowing through his veins, and after scrubbing his face with cold water (he's a little splotchy, but at least there's no evidence of _tears_ left) he opens the door.

The lights in the corridor are muted, so the Cap squints for a moment, getting a faceful of shine from the bathroom. Tony doesn't sigh, because he _doesn't_ sigh, but he does take a deep breath and then lets it out in a quiet, inconspicuous manner. It's not like he's got a reason to be – god forbid – _anxious_ about anything. What's done is done, and he can deny it until he's blue in the face (not green – never green – that's Bruce's domain), but Steve's smarter than to take Tony's bullshit.

Also, they're both adult people. Maturity's debatable, but they've survived this far, and they… well… they know how to _abide_ one another. This is just another crisis. Just like a threat to the civilization, or like a potential end of the world. Nothing new.

"You're alright then?" the Cap asks a bit dully.

Tony snorts. "JARVIS told you that much." He can't know for sure, but the option of asking JARVIS has invalidated the guy's excuse for leaving the table and the rest of the team knows it. Spangles could have just as well announced it. No concept of subtlety, that one – alright, Tony's just being a bitch about the situation now. Not fair – _not on_, more importantly – taking it out on the nice guy with the heart of gold.

"_You_ programmed JARVIS," the Cap replies.

Tony pretends like that's not a valid objection. "I'm _perfect_," he says with as much sarcasm as he can force into a declaration that he usually tries to make sound sage and sincere. It's hard to intentionally sabotage his self-advertisement.

It would be impossible for Tony if he were talking to anyone else, but this guy's… easy to talk to, when he's not on a patriotic high.

"I notice you omitted the actual answer," the Cap says smartly.

Tony leans back against the sink and fails to suppress a smile. Damn kid. He feels like there's half a G greater acceleration than there should be on Earth, but that's just the alcohol. The warmth, the disassociation, the devil-may-care mood is all the alcohol. He smells it on his own breath, and the familiarity is a little tedious, but at the same time comforting.

If anything happens, he'll have an excuse. But nothing will happen, because Steve is even more aware of the alcohol than Tony himself, so he will not allow anything to happen.

"I'm tipsy," Tony answers, "not entirely steady on my feet, and not in any danger of spontaneously asphyxiating."

The Cap inclines his head in (mocking) admiration. "Not many tipsy men can pronounce 'spontaneously asphyxiating.'"

Tony grins and points at his reflection in the nearest mirror. "Functional alcoholic."

"I know." Steve gives him a sad but genuine (like everything about him) smile. "I understand."

He does? Tony very much doubts that. "What? No spiel about how this is bad for me, how I'm killing myself and should stop?"

There's a while of silence. The bad thing about _tipsiness_ is that Tony can't always control the amount of emotion he filters through his tone of voice, so that has come out far more accusing that he wanted it to.

Steve sighs very quietly, and rubs his left wrist with his right thumb. His eyes stray away from Tony's for a moment, roam over the countless reflections in the countless polished surfaces in the bathroom, and then return. "I asked Bruce," he says maybe a little more quietly than before, but calmly and with certainty. "He explained to me about genius minds and how it may feel to be trapped within such a mind. Bruce told me about escapes into altered states of consciousness – be it through adrenaline, endorphins or hallucinogens."

Tony becomes entirely unable to describe how he is feeling in that precise moment. It's like being dissected alive, but nice. And the surgeon is being very understanding about it.

"I would hope that there was a better way," the Cap continues, looking briefly to his wrist and then back up at Tony, "and I would not hesitate to offer myself in any capacity to relieve your boredom for fear that you may be shortening your time with us. However, such optimism appears to be unwarranted-"

Tony doesn't know if the guy thinks his offer would be shot down with a side of mocking laughter, or if he's simply beginning to believe that they're all going to croak fairly soon, but he doesn't care. It's only partially the whisky (a little part, if he's honest with himself) that makes him reach out and punch the Cap's shoulder to make him shut up. It's only partially the whisky (the greater part this time) that makes him momentarily lose his balance, so he has to lean on the fist still pressed into Mr America's shoulder.

Steve, of course, grabs him to steady him.

So now they're standing in a corridor lit poorly by the muted illumination and through the open bathroom door, with Steve's (large, warm) hands on Tony's shoulders and Tony's hand kind of on Steve's shoulder, and Tony has never been the kind of guy who lets such a prime opportunity pass by – or, worse, who would feel awkward.

"I've survived this long," Tony tells him, smirking. "I'm liable to use anyone who tries to mother me for target-practice."

The Cap laughs. He's, maybe, a little red in the cheeks, but he's definitely not feeling awkward either, and that just shows how far he's (they're both) gone. He fists his right hand and bumps his knuckles, lightly, against Tony's temple. "Don't fry that mind."

They both know there are too many reasons to bother with naming them all, so Tony just nods. He'd kill himself before he'd become stupid. (He can't stand stupidity. Surprise, surprise.)

It's easy to lean forward and press a short but firm kiss to Steve's lips. It's just another simple touch – like the shoulder-bump or the knock on the temple – it's just that this time Tony is (as he's liable to) unabashedly confirming that, yes, this is happening and he's not such a pussy that he'd try and hide from it.

When Tony backs up, staying within arm's reach but putting enough distance between them to enable verbal communication, Steve's smiling. Twenty-first century suits him. Seventy years ago, Captain America being straight as a ruler was a fact of life. Today, Steve does have the option of kissing a man if he so chooses. (He's got awesome taste in men, Tony has to admit.)

"Yet another facet to the maelstrom," the Cap muses under his breath.

Tony laughs and breaks away. The whisky sloshes around is his stomach – he should have eaten more – but he rather enjoys how his amusement is far less tethered than it would have been if he was sober. "Yeah. The Avengers. What a load of… _crock_."

They both pause at the artless censure.

"I find the idea of derogation within our group, for whatever reason, unacceptable," Steve warns him with a hint of frown. "I am well aware of your vocabulary-"

"And of my drinking, and of my bad habit of fucking around," Tony finishes, exaggerating for effect. He's not that bad. Lately. "You can claim you don't want me to 'clean up my act,' Soldier Boy, but we both know better."

Steve's expression hardens. "I cannot offer more than I have."

Since he pretty much offered himself, the statement is moot, anyway. Tony can spot a good deal, and he already knows he's taking it (and the Cap, when he stops second-guessing himself, knows it too), only he knows that he shouldn't be trusted. He's going to fuck up. But – he looks over – Steve's tough as nails, and he can definitely take it. Tony grins. This will be _awesome_.

He extends his hand and pats the guy's cheek. "Not walking over each other and _compromises_. Fuck. We've got the work cut out for us."

Spangles processes for a moment, and then nods. "The phrase 'herding cats' comes to mind."

They laugh again, and then they stop. There's a while of utter tranquility, while Tony has entirely too much time to think about how they've just plowed through all the hard work already anyway, trying to work out the team dynamics and the mutual animosity and the crippling incomprehension, and now that they acknowledge the attraction they're simply left standing at the threshold of a… a… _relationship_. It's weird to Tony, but it's also the only correct answer to the question 'what now?' so he doesn't overthink it (in this, again, the alcohol helps.)

Then Steve moves. Damn guy is fast and – what's a stronger word for strong? Anyway, end result is Tony's back pressed to a wall, Steve's (large, warm) hands on his sides, too fucking gentle like he's scared that Tony would break (a valid worry, in this case, so Tony ignores it with nary an eye-roll), and they're kissing.

Feels good. Requires some practice to enhance the adjective, but there's a stirring of emotions (in addition to the whisky) in Tony's stomach, and that makes it remarkable. He's curious what the difference would be to fuck someone he cares about (more than like a friend, because Pepper owns a part of his soul, but this is something else). He's not going to be finding out tonight, either – he knows the Cap better than that – not because of some arbitrary propriety or impropriety, not because of something downright moronic like 'fear' or 'not being ready' or whatever, but for the simple reason that it wouldn't flow.

They're all about the flow.

Tony pushes – well, more like _nudges_ – the big lump away, and sets out back toward the dining room while working on recovering enough sass to hide his slightly pensive mood. He'd bet neither of the three expect to see Tony again tonight. They think he's going to crash somewhere in the private parts of the Tower and drink himself into a stupor. Not tonight, suckers!

Steve takes his revenge for the shove by pushing Tony through the door and sending him stumbling inside. Great. Now Bruce, Romanov and Barton think he's gone further than he really is. Usually he'd just have fun with that (he drinks less than they think, and doesn't get nearly as blasted as they think, but what they don't know won't hurt him when he in the morning pretends not to remember anything), but tonight's just not the night.

Or, alternatively, it's the night – but not for pulling his teammate's legs.

Or… maybe?

"Is he whining about his poor, sadly departed pride?" Romanov asks, affecting something that resembles a smile.

"Not at all," Steve replies, smiling back at her and taking his seat. "I was merely convinced to conduct a scientific experiment."

Tony plops down and mentally regrets that he and the Cap didn't have a rousing snogging session, which, if it didn't send them straight into bed, would have at least left them with bruised mugs and bite-marks all over. Except that it wouldn't have shut the woman up – it would have just given her more fuel, and maybe she'd get royally pissed at Tony for supposedly defiling the (ninety-two years old) baby of the team.

"Not you, too." Romanov pouts. "It's like a convention of geeks. I can't wait for Thor to get back." She must have indulged, too, only out of Tony's sight to maintain her moral high-ground.

Tony's got JARVIS and the recording from the security camera, neener, neener.

"Because you don't shop-talk with the archer just as much," Tony snipes. "_Ambidextrous manual safety_ my ass. Manual is so last millennium – no offence, Cap."

Steve shakes his head and hides a smile behind his glass. Isn't he just over the fucking rainbow?

Isn't Tony?

They're screwed. (Not literally, but that won't be long now.)

Tony feels (together with alcohol) the small but impossible to ignore burn of desire coiling in his stomach. It's nothing uncontrollable, and he doesn't need to push the guy against the nearest vaguely flat surface, but it's actually making him look forward to the time when the pushing will be viable.

"So long as you don't try to do anyone damage," Bruce tells him, and Tony figures that he's missed some segue somewhere, but the gist is that they do their hardest to dislike him, and it doesn't always work.

Romanov's secretly (not so secretly to Tony) impressed that he's not taken in by her wiles and has never tried to get her into bed. Tony doesn't have Barton's weakness toward him figured out yet, but if he had to guess, he'd guess it's the bow and Tony's utter appreciation for the out-of-the-box thinking.

"Do or do not," Tony snarks at Bruce. "There is no try."

Bruce catches the reference and snicker-smiles, before he picks up a napkin and wipes off his hands. "Good grub," he says appreciatively. "If you don't mind-"

"It's okay," Tony interjects. "You most of us need your beauty sleep – so you don't go green with envy."

Barton and Romanov give him exasperated looks, but Bruce is a good sport and just rolls his eyes. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands.

"It is quite late," the Cap points out. "Will you be alright?"

Bruce waves him off. "It's not that far, and I don't get tired any more easily than you do, Steve." He doesn't get any drunker, either, but in the end that doesn't matter so much, since he's only been drinking tap water all evening.

After Bruce leaves, Steve fails to be inconspicuous while glancing at the half-empty whisky decanter.

Tony shakes his head. Any more of that stuff and he won't feel better – he'd just make an ass of himself. He reaches for a bottle of coke and decides to wash out his whisky glass with that. Sugar, spice, everything nice. All in one shot.

And he's the one who goes for snips, snails and puppy-dog tails in the end. He snorts into the whisky-flavored coke and looks at Steve, who's in the meantime started a conversation with Barton about something or other. He doesn't seem the least bit defensive.

"That must have been _some_ lecture," Romanov remarks on the softness of Tony's drink. She turns to Steve and cuts off whatever he's imparting unto Barton: "What did you say to him?"

The Cap's a little confused, since he has not a clue what she's talking about.

Tony laces his fingers together behind his head and leans back in the chair, showing off the _For Those About To Rock We Salute You_ t-shirt and the arc reactor (and his pecs). "Ah, but I'm not cured. I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security."

Romanov scoffs. "That, I can believe."

"He's going to be unbearable without Bruce playing his adoring audience," Barton mutters, still unaware just how good Tony's hearing is. Or maybe he's just forgotten his hearing aid today, and is compensating.

"_Chyort vazmi_," Natasha grumbles. "Stark, scared as I am to leave you alone with your A.I., we should be on our way."

She glances at Barton, who barely blinks back. Their vibe is, like, unreal. It's so hard to believe that Barton's not even hitting that.

Or maybe he is, but Tony doesn't actually think so. The two are constantly on the verge of falling into a bed together, and one of these days they are going to (hopefully, because that much sexual tension's just not healthy), but Tony's doing his level best to be respectful of Barton's marriage (even if the wife's been dead for who knows how long) without saying so, and it's kinda hurting him having to swallow all his impertinent remarks.

Hopefully, they'll solve the situation soon enough.

The Cap glances over, trying not to look worried.

"I lived for a good couple decades on my own before you ever knew I existed," Tony grumbles, meaning that _sure_, he's going to survive until their next meeting. It's not actually that difficult, the survival, unless some serious shit goes down, in which case Fury would involve the team anyway.

"You have my number," Steve anachronistically replies, patting the pocket of his trousers that's bulging just the littlest bit with the phone stuffed inside.

Tony nods and lifts his glass in a wordless toast.

It makes him feel giddy to realize that every time he almost dies in battle, every time he nearly coughs himself to death and excuses himself to the bathroom, Steve's going to be there (because that's what he's implying in between the stares and the hints and the kisses, he the relic from the forties who's learning that maybe him being a little for the gentlemen's not the end of the world). Tony only has to do two things in return for getting that care that he doesn't need (he'd only die without it) and doesn't want (only craves it with every fiber of his being). The first is the acknowledgement he's already given – because how could he have not? The other is to return it.

It means knowing what the Cap does with his free time, learning his nightmares and the counters to them, and it's all science, just much more empiric than the physics Tony's used to. He can do it and he wants to do it, and there's nothing in the world that remains impossible to him once those two conditions are fulfilled.

"I truly would not mind," Steve lies under his breath, standing from the table.

Tony glances up at him and raises his brows. "_Really_ really?"

Steve does not catch the reference, obviously. Either he should watch some contemporary movies, or Tony'll be forced to delve into the archives so he'd be able to pull some ancient references out of his ass. (Sounds like fun – private jokes between the two of them based on the forties' cinematography.)

"That is the trouble with so many Superheroes put together," Spangles muses. "We get into each other's way. We _affect_ one another, where we should just work alongside each other."

"You think that _this_-" Tony somewhat surreptitiously gestures between the two of them, "-will make me less Iron Man?"

Steve sputters and then, laughing, shakes his head. "Not hardly."

"Or you less _America_?" Tony says, not even bothering to hide the scorn at the epithet. He's not a patriot, and it shows – sometimes too much. He doesn't believe in God, in country or in any universal good. They call him a cynic.

They expound on his daddy-issues. Because when he's attracted enough to a guy that he wants to fuck him, and that guy just happen to be a freakishly awesome friend and a good enough ally in a pinch, it's obviously all about Howard. Screw Howard. Screw America. Screw religion.

"Would you believe," Steve speaks, suppressing guffaws with some difficulty, "that there's a saying going around on the Internet? _This is the twenty-first century_. _Of course the Iron Man and Captain America are gay for each other_."

Tony laughs. He can't actually help himself. The statement is utterly ridiculous, and yet in a way it totally nails it so precisely that it makes him want to applaud. Twenty-first century, indeed. And Steve checking out the Net – how has he not expected that? The Cap's been so upset by the media coverage that it could have resulted in either absolute boycott or a thorough research. It figures the Soldier would not stick his head into the sand, and he would brave the fangirlism.

"And?" Tony inquires coolly, sipping from his tumbler and grimacing at the sweet taste of the coke.

Steve shrugs. "It's hardly the opinion of the majority. However, it appears to have gathered a support base, and I…" He chuckles at himself but leaves the statement unfinished.

And he so hates to disappoint, Tony guesses, smirking.

"It is much more difficult to form your own opinions and defend them than to follow orders from above," Steve admits, meeting Tony's eye to impress upon him just how important the issue is to him. "However, there is a point in one's life when merely the following of orders does not suffice anymore, and one _has_ to formulate a private agenda to prevent an imminent… burn-out."

Tony absorbs the modern vocabulary and doesn't let himself wonder what the Hell the Cap's reading that's got him talking like he was born in the eighties. On the contrary, Tony leans back and mutely (and mildly tipsily) watches Steve leave on the heels of Barton and Romanov.

'Have you seen him?' the stupid bitches ask. They know shit. So what if the serum buffed him up? What if he's blond and blue-eyed and pretty as a picture? That means fuck-all.

A relevant question is: 'Have you listened to him?' Because Tony tried not to, god knows he did, but that didn't work out so well for him and when push came to shove, the Cap opened his pie-hole and _ideas_ came out. And, sure, he was fucking young and dew-eyed, but he was _real_. Maybe the last real human in the world (discounting the part that came out of a bottle).

And a relevant question is: 'Have you spent time around him?' Because Tony tried not to, god knows he did, but that didn't work out for him either. Spangles, damn him, _emits_ his good qualities, so you have not only his innate goodness to deal with, but also the sudden improvement of the people around him to stomach. And, Christ on a stick, the _righteousness_. They take him as a template and then compete about who's come closest to being like him. Like they could. Like they could keep any of that bullshit up without him around to lead them by their damn hands.

Tony knows too fucking well that he's not going to join in the game and play pretend with the team that they are all brave, self-sacrificing, righteous heroes. He's none of that, and he's not ashamed to admit it (he's done it in the past, repeatedly, and each time Steve has been a little less capable of hating him for it). It's like… it's… oh, irony! It's like he's the Cap's negative in this. While Uncle Sam brings out the best in them, Anthony Stark brings out the worst. And the same way the Cap gets praised, Tony gets blamed.

It works out for him. He's got the face for the devilishly handsome and charismatic villain.

So much bullshitty schmooze. But, hey! He's got the whisky to blame it on.


	2. Way of Knowing

A/N: Okay, I was wrong. I had this bloody thing done, and then I got another idea, and the thing stretched again. So there's going to be a third chapter, and then I'm off to work on _Nothing Like Harker_ and _Visionary_. Wish me luck. Preferably, in a review. Cheers.

Brynn

x

Part Two: Way of Knowing

x

It's a bad day all around, so Tony goes to sleep in the early afternoon (after thirty-eight hours in the lab, but that's neither here nor there). He wakes up three hours later from a nightmare about Howard the Puppeteer steering around a puppet-Steve by his right hand and a puppet-Tony by his left. Puppet-Steve and puppet-Tony danced as the strings pulled at them, and Tony's fit to self-medicate by the time he manages to unglue his eyes and convince himself that the vision really was just a product of his demented mind.

He downs an emergency double-shot from the flask he keeps on the shelf in his bathroom, and pulls on a _Black Sabbath_ – _Iron Man_ t-shirt (it has nothing to do with him, and he likes that especially; it's like there are people who don't feel obligated to either worship or despise him, and he should probably bash them publically for making it seem like he's less significant than he pretends to be, but he's a _fan_).

Genius or whatever, one thing that Anthony Edward Stark can't do is make music. (He pays other people to do that for him.)

He owns too much. He doesn't even have the slightest idea of what in actuality belongs to him, because he's got people keeping an eye on the stock markets and it's perfectly possible that by this time they've bought up half the world in his name, and he just doesn't care. It's all… _stuff_. Doesn't mean _shit_.

"JARVIS," Tony more mumbles than speaks, "put in _Paranoid_, full blast." And if there were any invaders to his Tower today, they may as well be educated. He'd just bet that Steve's idea of great music is Ella Fitzgerald. No offence to Ella, but she just didn't rock it.

"Right away, sir," the A.I. replies, and a moment later the speakers vibrate with the intro riffs of _War Pigs_.

Ah, great music first thing in the morning (early evening, but whatever). After a quick trip to the bathroom, Tony descends the emergency staircase to the lab and shuts himself in. With mild sense of aliveness, he hacks into his own security network and browses through the cameras. He finds little of interest, except Steve doing lengths in the pool on the eleventh floor, and even that gets boring to watch after a while.

Good to know the Cap's an Olympic-level swimmer, though, for the next time this damn steel suit will drag Tony toward the bottom of the ocean. Also, water-proof communications are a must.

Inspired, Tony gets right on it.

_Has he lost his mind? Can he see or is he blind?_ Black Sabbath rocks in the background, and Tony flips off the speakers before delving into his newest pet project.

_Nobody wants him…_

x

Tony sends off the blueprints of his newest achievement to S.H.I.E.L.D. and directs DUM-E to package the prototypes (the Mark D, since he's, _obviously_, keeping Mark B and Mark C for himself) for shipping. Next mission he won't be half as nervous if they have to move the battle over open water. It happens much more often than he would have guessed. Probably due to all the nuclear weaponry every semi-belligerent group keeps stashing, thinking that it'll help them more than it helped any of the others.

It would be kind of boring except, well… the Cap. No one (and Tony especially makes himself unheard when it comes to this subject) wants Steve Rogers to be iced for another seventy years. Most of them are worried about a teammate or a friend, and Tony usually abstains whenever that topic comes up (also more often than anyone uninvolved would have guessed) or throws around enough defensive sarcasm to annoy the pansies to no end. He'd bet that Romanov and Barton think it's because he wants to be the unchallenged leader of the team. That's, of course, so much bullshit. Tony can't even follow his own plans half the time, and there's no way he'd ever be able to lead anyone anywhere but directly to their doom, so not even his mountainous arrogance can move him to fighting over leadership. Besides, however inexplicitly, he's the Cap's fan.

Bruce thinks – and doesn't hesitate to say so – that it's because Tony's just not predisposed toward displaying his feelings and, in his own emotionally-retarded way, he cares for them all. That's much less of a bullshit, but still off.

"Sir," JARVIS speaks up, just in time to prevent Tony's thoughts from straying into an uncomfortable field, "Miss Romanov has entered the private floors. She appears mildly agitated but not in need of medical assistance."

Tony contemplates all possible reasons the Black Widow might have to try and kill him. He can't come up with anything that doesn't occur bi-weekly and which he expects her to be accustomed to.

"Alright," Tony presses out. "Anything else you might want to share?"

JARVIS replies: "In less than two hours I have scheduled a reminder that tomorrow is a dinner night, sir. Otherwise, there is a slight elevation in the output of the generator-"

"And that wasn't a cause for alert?" Tony exclaims, pissed as he only ever gets when one of his creations malfunctions. Dammit, JARVIS is supposed to be perfect! "What kind of-"

"-while the frequency is consistent with the initiation of a wormhole bridge from the planet arbitrarily designated as 'Asgard.'" JARVIS finishes, ignoring Tony's outburst with Pepper's own delicacy.

Tony blinks. Apparently, Thor's coming home. Doesn't write, doesn't call, just drops in. Oh well, what can a man expect from a god, anyway?

"Let's hope he doesn't drop on anyone's head."

"Based on Miss Foster's theoretical equations, I would es-ti-ma-te-"

Those must be _some_ equations, Tony muses, if they manage to notably slow JARVIS down.

"-Mr Thor's arrival point at your private heliport, sir."

Tony pauses for a while, startled, and then shrugs. That's what skyscrapers have rooftops for. Times like this he misses his Malibu villa. Thinking of which, he needs to get the Cap all the passes and sneak his name onto the deed, just in case. Fate's a bitch like that, and while Steve's really not the kind of man who could put the villa to a good use, there's no one else Tony would ever want having it.

Pepper's heart's black with hate for it as it is. That's one woman that can't appreciate the good things in life for fear of consequences or something equally as banal.

Thinking of, Bruce would do good with the lab. Tony's sure as fuck not leaving his toys to Fury's people.

"JARVIS," Tony demands, making his way out of the lab and upwards, "remind me – the day after tomorrow – that I want to update my will."

"Yes, sir," JARVIS replies complacently.

Tony congratulates himself once again for how awesome he is to have programmed a butler incapable of concern. Flesh and blood are so overrated sometimes, especially when they come with intrusive questions like 'Surely, sir, you are not going to die anytime soon?' or anything of the sort.

"May I suggest you father a child?" JARVIS speaks again, and Tony takes the congratulation back.

He feels a little shaky and a lot nauseous. The idea of him as a father is even worse than the idea of him as a politician. As a politician he would be good at what he'd be doing, and he would fuck over a lot of people. As a father, he'd suck at it and he'd fuck over (or up) only his kid. Tony's perfectly aware that he's inherited his Father's aptitude toward fatherhood.

"If you ever mention that in the presence of another sentient being, I'll go Neo on your binary ass!"

JARVIS replies a generic "Of course, sir," and they both know who's won that exchange.

Tony checks over his day's work. The receiver/transmitter combo is as perfect as it can be. He's got ideas on improvement, of course, but he'd be needing either three decades of technological evolution to happen overnight, or some reverse-engineered alien tech, or the God particle to play around with, and he doesn't see getting either for his birthday (particularly since no one but Pepper knows when his birthday is, not that they'd be interested either way… except maybe Steve).

"How's our resident Norse deity's ETA?" he inquires, climbing up the emergency stairs that he's lately claimed as a sort of secret passage to get around _his own_ Tower without meeting any of the invaders (cough – guests – cough).

"In between thirteen and twenty-eight minutes, with the standard ninety-five percent probability," JARVIS replies.

Tony, feeling a little too awake after a few too many coffees and no alcohol to mellow him, ascends right up to the roof. He can't see his usual touch-down spot from here, and that's just as he's wanted it. On the other hand, the gravel's kind of getting on his nerves. Why does he have gravel on top of his Tower?

Where's Pepper when he needs her to explain some of the shit she's pulled with the plans for this dig?

Grumbling and cursing under his breath, Tony sits down and mentally recounts the list of potential future projects he might start on tomorrow if fancy will strike him, waiting for Thor to make his appearance.

Inevitably, he stops thinking about physics and instead had his attention redirected to the topic of the anachronistic Captain occupying a set of rooms on one of the top floors.

Tony never knew he could be patient. Okay, well, he can't. It's just that he's enjoying the game, because it's subtle, it's clever, and he can't brute-force-think it, this time. It's all in the tuning, to borrow a mechanics metaphor, and Tony's a perfectionist, so he prefers a _perfect_ result later on to a half-assed one right now.

Yeah, yeah. Give the Capsicle time to unthaw.

It's, admittedly, a bit difficult. Tony's been infatuated before, and he's had sex with men before, but he's never been _you know_ with a guy, and somehow the urge to wax poetic about somebody's ability to say 'fuck-you' to all and sundry and yet maintain their moral high leaves him so far out of his comfort zone, he might need to hijack a plane to get back in. He knows he's pathetic – he just wonders whether that's in comparison to Captain America, or simply because he's such a pussy he keeps contemplating the feelings crap.

Thor saves him (not that he's in distress or anything) by manifesting a shitload of cute little non-electrical lightning bolts all over the rooftop. Some of them hit Tony. They tingle.

They also heal the burns on his fingertips, and he's not about to complain.

Thor appears far more dramatically than he disappeared last time, but that's probably because his daddy dearest's deemed him grown-up enough to try the whole process on his own, instead of leeching from a Tesseract or transporting him via Allfather Express.

"Learnt a new trick, did you?" Tony speaks from his corner (a dark one, since the pollution hides away whatever meager starlight there might have been). "Care for a sugar cube?"

Thor pauses for a moment. It does have its own comic relief value when he completely freezes to process, with only his red, ornamented cape billowing in the breeze, but Tony isn't laughing.

"It appears that my concerns about being unwelcome were for naught," Thor says after a while, filtering Tony's shit as shit.

Clever guy.

"Sure, you can crash here," Tony tells him. At JARVIS' suggestion, he had even had a room god-proofed for Thor's use. It wasn't anywhere near indestructible, but it would certainly be more durable than, say, Tony's own. (But he did like destroying things when he got into one of his moods.) "Just try not to crash as literally as your little bro did."

This one Thor interprets without any awkward pauses, and appreciates with somewhat exaggerated booming laughter. "Thank you, my friend," he says, and takes a deep breath of the (polluted) night air.

"Come on, blondie," Tony mutters for lack of an offence with the slightest chance to stick, "I'll take you where you can chill until Fury calls again."

"Is the Lady Natasha well?" Thor inquires as Tony re-latches the trapdoor behind them and the blank grey walls with the green arrows (added for the benefit of the government officials) enclose them.

Tony's not sure how the guy guessed that everything isn't A-okay with their resident ex-communist and ex-soviet spy, but he chalks it up to gods being gods and offers: "Oh, her. Hawkeye's back in the field, so she's gone a little crazy."

Tony's quite sick of the emergency staircase and resolves to use the elevator from now on. The muted lights suck big time.

"Gone to battle? Was there a call for my presence that I have missed?" Thor seems genuinely upset. He's, Tony suspects, about as much of a nice guy as Steve. Not half as attractive though. Nice arms, nice pecs, and if Tony had nothing better to do with his time and there were no friendships at risk, he might have made a play there, but there's no… no importance to all that.

Tony can just feel his uterus grow whenever he thinks something sentimental like that, but he's a scientist, so it would be unnatural for him to deny that he's being influenced by the mysterious chemicals some of his glands secrete. "No, nothing serious."

Thor scowls. Whatever unearthly mojo he's using, it's freaking Tony out – and also making him hyperaware of the pebble inside his shoe, but that's a detail.

"Barton just does not handle idleness too well, without Barbara and Francis…" Tony non-explains and walks away before he unintentionally borrows trouble. Of course he's read their files – the official ones and the rest of the shit Fury's kept for his private use, away from the freak-show that runs the world whenever there's not an acute crisis. It's not like the S.H.I.E.L.D.'s encryption presents a serious challenge. When Tony's bored, he sometimes plays around with their firewalls and installs in funny little traps and pitfalls, with alerts for him so he can see the reaction of the unfortunate agent that triggers them.

Fury frowns upon this practice. Not that it's obvious, because Fury's default expression is a scowl. _Not that_ Tony cares about Fury's opinion. He's clever enough and rich enough that he doesn't have to.

So, he's read their files and blocked out all the info he's managed to. He's an asshole, but not so much of an asshole that he'd bring up their pasts in a conversation. They're all messed up. Even the god-guy with the defective younger _adopted_ brother. It's kind of a prerequisite – that's how a person gets into this business. Lose your family and friends, get pissed off enough to try and change the world (for better or worse), and obtain the power to do that.

"Sir, it is nineteen hundred thirteen hours," JARVIS' voice announces from the speaker in the corner of the hallway. "You wished to be reminded of the experimental aromatic polyamide fiber-"

"Got it," Tony cuts JARVIS off. He point a door with a classic lock out to Thor. "Your crib, buddy."

"My thanks," the god replies, and lets himself inside.

Tony goes for the elevator, much as the need to type in an actual security code irritates him. It's still more secure than fingerprints.

Hours later he crawls out of the lab in search of the open bottle of port that's just too good to go to waste. According to JARVIS, none of the team has availed themselves to it yet, so it's waiting for him, along with its still stoppered twin. Apparently, aramids are Tony's weakness. He'll get there! (Only not today.)

He enters his living room – office – lobby – place… anyway, the room with the bar and the couches and the huge-ass screen, and halts.

Steve is sitting on his couch, which is becoming sort of normal, lately. He's also fast asleep, head thrown back and mouth half-open. Quietly exhaling every three seconds.

Tony doesn't know what to do for a moment. He's suffering an emotional reaction to the sight and its implications, and he's not very successful at analyzing it. Not that it matters – he and Steve are both already very well aware that they're affected by each other, so that's hardly a surprise. It's still rare to see the Cap sleep not curled up like a foetus. Alright, that sounds bad even in Tony's head, and he's not actually a voyeur – he much more likes being the part of things – so it's not like he goes pulling the security recordings from his own archives all the time. He does that _occasionally_, when he has a _reason_ to do it.

Because the so-designated Avengers don't even bother pretending they're fine by day, and at night, when some of the conscious barriers fall down and they become even more human (_vulnerable_) it's obvious just how fucked in the head most of them are.

Steve habitually sleeping like he wants to crawl back into the womb he fell out of is actually far less embarrassing than some of the shit the others do. (Like drinking until they can't remember their name and passing out halfway to the john.)

In the end Tony goes and takes both bottles from the bar. He picks two glasses – Steve may not be drinking by choice, but he could change his mind, and Tony's in the mood to offer. The bottles and glasses clink against the coffee table as he sets them down one by one and – Tony's not sure if fortunately or unfortunately – the sound wakes Steve (where Tony walking all over the room didn't, but whatever; anyone living in this freaky place is allowed to be abnormal).

"Hmm?" Steve inquires, lazily opening his eyes. In superhero-specific body language, that means he feels safe.

Tony grins. Fuck aramids, he can still end the day (days?) on a high note.

He pours a glass of wine and waves it under Spangles' nose. "Can I tempt you?"

"Are you doing anything but?" Steve retorts, grinning back, and – _shockingly_ – takes the glass.

"Not tonight," Tony assures him. According to JARVIS, Thor and Romanov are the only ones aside from them in the building, and since Pepper's gone for some reason or other to the Old Continent for the weekend, they'd only be disturbed if there's a threat to the mankind forwarded from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hotline.

Tony clinks his glass with Steve's and swallows a mouthful. He's a barbarian when it comes to wine (when it comes to booze in general, because in this particular case he's a quantity kind of man).

They empty their glasses at the same time and set them down almost simultaneously. Tony reaches for the bottle to refill but Steve doesn't give him the chance. His hand winds around the back of Tony's neck and brings him in without allowing him the opportunity to object – not that Tony would be resisting if asked. Damn boy's a quick study. He needs about twenty seconds to reduce Tony into a state of mindlessness he associates with medium drunkenness or imminent death, and Tony takes off like fucking kite.

Steve's mouth tastes of wine and chips with vinegar. For whatever reason, it makes Tony want to laugh, but he's a little too preoccupied to have the time. He discovers how much he likes getting pushed around if the circumstances are right, and that he's got real comfortable couches. This feelings lark does weird things to his brain chemistry.

"Shut up," Steve mutters, even though Tony's not said anything and he's – excuse the pun – too fucking tongue-tied to speak.

Then the Cap breaks another of his little propriety lines and goes off exploring Tony's body. Although, to be frank, the guy's been like this since the first – or maybe the second – time they ever met. (This actually happened already on the helicarrier after the emotional-extortion argument and before they've worked together to restart the busted motor.) It's like Steve's hands are magnets, inevitably drawn to all the metal under Tony's skin. He can't help himself. He touches. Starts with seemingly innocuous places, like wrists and shoulders, but quickly proceeds to knees and hips and waist.

The moment the Cap's curious fingers stray beneath Tony's clothing, JARVIS knows to disable the surveillance and lock all entrances.

Tony realizes that he doesn't know any worthwhile tricks that would stay true to the soft-core porn mood yet at the same time entrance his vic' utterly, so he's got to improvise. That's made far easier by the fact that this is Steve Rogers, and Tony just _wants_ to touch. Anywhere he's allowed, really. His hair, cropped like it's required of all military personnel, the back of his neck, his collarbone and the arms.

Tony presses his tongue to the guy's Adam's apple, and becomes entranced by the breathy sighs Steve can't stop coming out of his throat. It's like an expression of utter bliss, however momentary, and Tony isn't at all surprised to find that he's as much a genius at sex with a fellow male Superhero as he's at everything else.

God-fucking-dammit, they're awesome. Equally awesome. And – _fuck_ – it doesn't even hurt to admit it.

Tony's head is thrown back, mouth open wide, welcoming Steve's tongue (the greedy bastard). He can't remember the last time, if there ever has been one, when sex was such an out-of-body experience. He means, it's _about_ the body, isn't it?

"Does it hurt?" Steve asks suddenly, and Tony's retroactively noticing the gap between their mouths that hasn't been there a moment ago.

Tony blinks a few times. Shit, this is disorientating. What… what's the Cap talking about? Hurt? He can't recall ever hurting _less_.

Steve pulls Tony's t-shirt the rest of the way over his head and fingers the edge of the arc reactor, making the subject of his questioning rather obvious.

Any other time Tony would go on a self-praising spiel about the miracle of modern technology that is the reactor and the particular hurdles he had overcome while constructing it, but, really, _not now_. He'll just let himself feel good about Steve's concern, about Tony and about Iron Man, because Steve's singularly incapable of seeing the line drawn between the two of them, and that's probably just what Tony needs to help him keep his sanity.

"Let's just say…" Tony replies mock-coyly, working on the buttons of the Cap's shirt, "I don't sleep on my stomach anymore."

It's not a problem at the moment, because the Cap pushes Tony onto his back and leans over to nibble on the still entirely human parts of him, starting at his throat. It would be funny, how the guy's _always_ at Tony's throat, but Tony's feeling too damn good to waste it on a cheap pun. Steve usurps for himself the taking-care-of part of the equation, and just this time Tony lets him, because it's obvious that Steve wants to and Tony, for the life of him, can't think of a valid objection (and no, around Steve, catering to his ego isn't a valid objection).

Tony guesses, in between Steve's (curious) explorations, that this is why people came up with the five-letter phrase. He's not about to say it, but it's nice to know, because then he can accurately estimate the guy who's pinning him down and – oh sweet mercy, it's mutual.

"Tony…?"

Tony grins. (Steve's not being half as brute as some of the eleven-stone girls who've been trying to prove themselves wilder and more fun in bed to make him come back.) "Rock my world, Soldier Boy."

x

Steve comes to with a jerk.

Tony pretends like he's been rapidly awakened by the sudden movement. No need to get into the… physical-closeness for the sake of physical-closeness stuff. Easier to say he's been asleep for the whole lot of it.

The Cap takes a good couple of minutes to screw his head back on, and by that time he's not only fully awake, but he's also figured out where he is, why he's there, who's sharing the couch with him and how they got into the position.

He doesn't seem either angry or upset, and Tony takes that as a good sign. Also, incidentally, the radio insists of displaying the time as 4:38, which is probably no more than ten minutes off the real time.

Tony can smell wine in the air, and maybe feel the slightest leftover taste on his tongue, but he doesn't feel like he's been drinking. Steve's fault, he'd just bet.

"In a rush to swayze?" Tony asks hoarsely once the Cap locates his shirt and hastily starts buttoning it up.

The question gives the guy a pause. Of course it does. They didn't have Swayze in nineteen-forties. The movie night's a must, just to ensure that Steve gets half of what's coming out of Tony's mouth.

And, damn, mind out of gutter, lest he scare the nice Mr A away. They've made a sport out of line-crossing already today.

"Can I stay?" Steve asks woefully shyly.

Must he ask? Tony inwardly grumbles, checking on the state and location of his own clothing articles, which is about as credible an excuse to not look at Spangles as any. There could very well be puppy-dog eyes, and Tony's glad for the darkness that protects him from those, because he knows he'd be tempted to make it easy for the Cap otherwise.

That's irony: Captain America, the Leader of the illustrious Avengers, and his inferiority complex of legendary proportions. Thank whatever presently listening deities (hopefully not Thor, but he didn't strike Tony as much of a voyeur) that the Cap leaves this shit behind when he pulls on his suit.

Unfortunately, in the meantime, it's just about the perfect way of strumming Tony's heartstrings. Make him feel needed. Make him feel like he's the strong one, the protector. Basically, play up to his ego. All in a very natural, unconscious way.

"_Mi casa es tu casa_," Tony answers after a slightly too long pause.

Steve hesitates. "Is that a yes?"

"What do you think?" Tony grins.

Steve huffs, although Tony would bet that he's just trying to hide his amusement. He can take a bit of teasing – guy's got a damn thick skin (in addition to that inferiority complex) after the life he's led (and which he doesn't mention, at all, ever, so Tony pretends not to know – as a, you know, seduction strategy). Also, Tony's a prick (and he takes a great pride in his ability to effortlessly offend) so the Cap would never have gone for him if he were easily hurt by an offhand comment.

"I think that you're being purposefully annoying," Steve says.

"Ah – you've got me figured out already," Tony answers, still grinning. He stuffs his socks into his trouser pockets, slips his bare feet into his trainers (no point in tying the laces for such a short trip) and grabs his t-shirt. _Iron Man_, indeed. "Come to me in the highest chamber of the Tower… and use me as your mattress, Soldier Boy. If I wake up bruised tomorrow, I'll have _you_ administer the salve."

"I believe I can deal with that," Steve says so equanimously that Tony completely fails to take in the shift in the mood until it's too late and he's already been made to feel like an idiot. "If I bruise you, I shall nurse any bruises you may sustain," he promises, meeting Tony's eye and – wholly intentionally, Tony's sure – seducing him all over again. Damn the guy.

Tony's easy to hate. Steve is easy to… feel affection for. Tony's not _that_ far gone. Yet.

x

It's weird to see arrows in a range.

There's a sudden hint of motion, and then a muted _schwump_. It's not bull's eye, but since the following arrow goes an inch to the side, and a third one another inch below, Tony figures _William Tell_ is just playing around.

Good to know he's not croaked on his mission. Tony doesn't want to know what Romanov would be like without Barton's downright tranquilising effect on her. She's enough of a death-dealing harpy, and only misses the necklace made of all the testicles she's collected as trophies over her carrier. Metaphorically speaking, because while the woman isn't any less screwed in the head than the guys on the team, she's not as insane as to keep a collection of body-parts. Tony hopes.

Another arrow hits the target, and then another, and if Barton insists on being boring, Tony can go amuse himself elsewhere.

Speak of the devil – Romanov's standing right behind the half-open door, reassembling a little something that, Tony would just bet, has _ambidextrous manual safety_. At a glance, the weapon's too big for her, but she doesn't obey limits either, so there's no point in that train of thought. It's her prerogative to choose what she wants to kill people – and things – with.

"I would imagine something called _Mosquito_ to be _spindlier_," Steve's voice points out.

When Tony shifts a little closer to the wall, he can see the Cap's hands, in which he's holding the twin to Romanov's toy.

"Well, it's not for the dainty," Romanov replies, and Tony can hear her amusement. "Five point six kilos."

"I can feel that," Steve says, and they both laugh.

Tony feels a little left out, and forbids himself the pout that's about emerge. He could be showing Steve all sorts of tech and weaponry, all of which are far more advanced than these… these previous-millennium relics. Except that, he now realizes, Steve's also, in his very charming way, a previous-millennium relic. He probably feels some kinship with the grandpappy-gun.

Since Tony's not so jealous that he would begrudge Steve a little fun simply because he's having it without Tony, he goes to bother the nearest unoccupied Avenger with his newest addition to their arsenal. It's not that the receiver/transmitter combos are not pretty much perfect as they are, but their point is to make the Avengers' lives a little easier, so Tony wants the feedback. (Also, he never says no to a free-of-charge ego-boost.)

"Barton!" he calls out, because he's running out of famous archers, and overextending the joke would kill it.

The man lets loose the last arrow, completes the shape of a fancy 'A' he's been perforating into the target, and lets his arms down. "Stark." He's apparently still in his zen, because there's an expression on his face like Tony's seen on some crack-addicts.

"Check out this cutie, and tell me what you think," Tony practically orders, not that Barton's likely to care, and offers one of the bug-like constructs he calls Mark C, which in actuality might be a little more complicated than the simplified official version Tony's sent to Fury. "Put it through its paces, if you feel like it."

Barton splays the cockroachcom over his palm and lifts it to his eyes. Then he shrugs. "Not like I have anything better to do. I don't see you volunteering to monitor, though."

He has that right. Tony is spending today off on something fun that will help put him into the right mood for another regularly scheduled team dinner in the evening. Hopefully, it will include Steve, but he's willing to forgo Steve if that's what it will take to get rid of Barton and Romanov.

"Ask Bruce. Or Thor, if he isn't somewhere on the North Pole, flirting with his squint."

Barton somehow manages to convey his exasperation through the folding of his bow.

Tony's impressed.

"I'll check with Natasha first," Barton announces, and follows Tony, who's about to eavesdrop – _gather intel_, that is – on Steve a bit more to decide whether to disturb his chat or go off on an adventure of his own.

He raises his arm and blocks Barton's passage when he hears the magic word 'Howard.'

Steve sounds angry and discomfited. "Does it _have_ to have anything to do with Howard?" he asks, shifting his weight to his left leg which, from Tony's point of view (through the half-open door), simply does marvelous things to his ass.

"Ah…" Romanov inclines her head. "Not necessarily. I was just worried that you were – projecting."

Steve honest-to-god snorts. "Impossible." He crosses his arms and faces Romanov head on.

Tony's too impulsive to keep back after that. He opens the door fully and steps in, scowling for all he's worth (quite a few billions).

If he was feeling a little more rational, he would perhaps admit that it is a perfectly logical connection to make, and it's been only a matter of time before someone would point it out, but he's not feeling rational. He's feeling defensive, and also strong in his belief in what he's feeling – and a bit of a pussy for thinking too much about the _feeling_ crap.

No becoming a slave to daddy-issues for him, and forget his nightmares. He has honest-to-god _feelings_ for the guy standing opposite him, and there's no one who can talk him out of them. It's not an obsession.

It's not an Oedipal/Electra complex.

It's new and own to him and _untainted_ by Howard.

"You know," Tony says clearly and icily, prepared to _avenge_ whatever that _feeling_ is the second he _feels_ like it's being bashed, "there's a reason people don't mention my mother. It's because I'm actually Howard's clone." He points to his temple. "He's downloaded all his memories onto this chip, but otherwise kept me in a stasis in case he took a tumble off the mortal _plane_. No pun intended."

It's definitely one of life's pleasures to see Romanov poleaxed. Steve covering his mouth to hide his snickering is just a bonus.

Barton, listening over Tony's shoulder, snorts.

Romanov quickly recovers and shrugs as if she's not been prying. "If you're sure…" She looks at the Cap.

"I am sure," Steve replies definitively.

Romanov nods, and her copper curls remain in place as they always do, since she uses so much hair spray. "I just think you're making a mistake."

Steve gives her one of his Yuri Gagarin smiles (the sort he breaks out whenever things get serious). "I know what I am doing, Natasha," he assures the spy. "You trust me in the field – why does that trust not extend to personal matters?"

He's just too nice to tell her to fuck off, Tony translates. Romanov's got the picking up on other people's emotional connections in her job description, so it hardly comes as a surprise that she's the first one to guess about what's going on between Steve and Tony, but she's also head over heels for the Hawkeye (and realizes that Tony realizes), so she knows to keep her mouth shut unless she particularly wants to be crucified by Fury for failing to keep her personal life out of the battleground.

Barton and Romanov's eyes meet, the woman nods, and they walk out in an eerie sync, with nary a wave in the direction of Tony and Steve.

It's like the Cold War all over again. They've got each other by the neck. Funny way of compounding enmity in between teammates. Funny way of compounding friendship ('cause that's what they're headed towards anyway).

And the worst thing is that Tony actually _likes_ Natasha Romanov, because she's just that much of a bitch, and she's never tried to get him to bed. With the Cap and Tony it's a case of opposites attracting each other in spite of themselves. With Romanov and Tony, it's the two similar people being utterly unable to see eye to eye.

Once the terrible twosome's gone, Steve breathes in relief and gives Tony a wan smile. "That was uncomfortable."

"Nosy cow," Tony agrees.

Steve grimaces at the description. "I do appreciate that they care, but I rather thought that they have more confidence in either of us."

Tony doesn't tell him that he's so used to people having no confidence in him that it would surprise him if Romanov reacted differently. If pressed, he'd say that this complex can be ascribed to Howard's treatment of him. Tony knows he's got issues. He doesn't need an ex-Communist, ex-Soviet spy whose life revolves around a widowed co-worker and obsolete weaponry to tell him so.

And he definitely isn't going to let her spoil his day off. "While the grunts do the grunt-work for us, however shall we amuse ourselves?"

Steve is definitely tempted to roll his eyes, but in the end he just quirks his lips and takes his jacket from the hanger. "Hmm… MOMA?"

Tony swallows a groan. He has set himself up for that.


	3. That Look

A/N: It's finished! Over and done with for real, this time (except for the side-story from Steve's point of view that's coming up). Thanks for support to those of you who supported this story. Reviews always appreciated.

Brynn

x

Part Three: That Look

x

Dinner is a lot louder than usual, thanks to Thor.

Tony's first to go down to the dining room, not because he wants to, but because Steve tricks him into it. The Cap's still laughing, sprawled comfortably in his chair (which Tony counts as his victory – it's not as easy as it sounds to make Steve cease maintaining his rigid composure), when the door opens.

Thor _thunders_ in. He pulls a chair from the table, its legs scraping loudly against the floor, and plops himself down opposite the mightily amused Captain.

"You're a cruel host, my friend, for tempting me with such a divine smell and yet having me wait for the food."

Tony smirks. He doesn't want caterers in for these dinners, so he consents to doing some of the serving himself. "How about I'll open a bottle? Because Romanov will be impossible to shut up if we start without her." It's happened before. It's been enough of a bother that Tony's resolved to never let it happen again.

Thor laughs, throwing his head back. "That I can abide!"

Tony puts the bottle of mead (not his usual fare, but something of a compromise) in front of Steve, and hands him the glasses. Steve automatically stars pouring.

Thor seems to freeze for a moment and then he laughs again, boomingly, until his eyes well, and he wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand. Tony and Steve are staring at him, both quite confused as to what is so funny.

"That… oh, how amusing!" the so-called god exclaims. "I see you have finally overcome the haze of animosity between you and chosen to follow the path of fate together!"

Tony gapes a little. Okay, he's definitely not _that_ obvious. So what if that Cap and he can sometimes semi-communicate without verbalizing? All of the team does that. It's the result of working together. A lot. In life-threatening situations.

What the Hell did this guy actually see?

Steve shakes his head, wordlessly pushes one of the glasses across the table and hands another to Tony.

Thor lifts his above his head and proclaims: "To you, my friends!"

Steve and Tony drink, and Tony thinks about how glad he is that this has happened without a crowd of witnesses. It's not like they're hiding – they haven't tried to hide since the beginning – but that scene has had a lot of embarrassment potential. He doesn't need that.

True to their superheroic stereotype, Barton and Romanov appear just as Steve finishes filling the glasses and Tony hands him another open bottle.

"Ah, _golly_," Bruce grumbles, entering on the heels of the Bond duo. "Is the world ending for real? I could have sworn Steve's an abstinent."

"Stark!" Romanov exclaims. "That's proof conclusive! You can drive even a saint to drinking!"

"I'm _not_ a saint!" Steve objects, with quite a lovely flush on his cheeks.

"He's not a saint," Tony repeats in his patented flat tone. "I would cast him out of my house if he was. I am morally opposed to sainthood."

Clue in the predictable response to his announcement – groans, snorts and mutters ("Ain't that the truth."). They really are a regular menagerie today.

The Zoo-escapees settle down, leaving Tony a place in between Bruce and Thor, which is good and bad because he's a safe distance away from Steve. Also, he's not within reach of Romanov. _Also_, he's next to Thor.

For those and many other reasons, Tony brings three more bottles with him, grimly aware that this isn't going to be nearly enough. Thor could probably drain a barrel by himself, and Tony would need a good half to get moderately buzzed. Damn Cap's got him wrapped around his sanctimonious little finger. No hard alcohol? Really? Never ever again. He doesn't know what he was thinking – well, yes, he does, and damn Steve for being so fucking underhanded when it suits him. Honestly. Tony might be a genius, but even he can't think that well when there's no blood in his brain.

There's small talk.

There's steak and potatoes and piles of vegetable. Tony prefers junk-food, but he doesn't want to ever again be subjected to anyone's rant about proteins and nutritional value. He regrets the absence of wine.

Inevitably, Romanov says something that raises his heckles (too damn similar, the two of them). "It's Fury's job to handle the mess that is us – the Avengers – on one side, and the… _people_ who think they control everything on the other."

"Between us and the Council? Can you say high stress job?" Bruce quips, drawing some snickers.

"No wonder he's got such a friendly disposition," Tony deadpans. "My issue with him is that I don't trust him. With several good reasons."

Romanov throws her head back (her hair still doesn't change position, glued together with industrial-strength product). "Fury's not that hard to get. He just does his job to the best of his abilities, and his best is pretty impressive."

"He lied to us," Tony points out.

They all know this. It's the reason why Fury doesn't know half as much as he'd like to about their fortnightly get-togethers.

"Because the lies were what we needed to hear to get the mission accomplished as effectively as possible."

Romanov's just doing her job and playing the devil's advocate, but Tony's too competitive to let her lecture-interrogate him, so he gathers some support from the peanut gallery: "Spangles, you can't agree with this?"

The Cap has obviously expected this argument, because he has his mighty proclamation ready: "I understand the necessity of giving soldiers limited information based on the need to know." He pauses, and then adds: "However, this situation is much different and… I do believe Agent Fury has overstepped his boundaries in this instance."

"Thank you!" Tony exclaims, clapping once in a parody of exultation.

"You're seriously taking Stark's side?" Romanov demands, half-incredulous, half-accusing.

Steve shakes his head. "I am not taking anyone's side. I was asked for my opinion and have given it, such as it is."

Sexy! Tony mentally exclaims, muting his grin down to a superior smirk, in case Romanov or Bruce look at him.

"As a leader must," Thor throws in.

"I didn't expect that," Romanov says to the Cap, with an undercurrent of reproach, as if he was betraying her by disagreeing with her. "You of all people should know how recon and reaction works."

Steve, cornered, shrugs and sets his elbows onto the table, finally forgoing the prim-and-proper dining etiquette. "I do," he admits. "I wouldn't want to go back to that. I am a part of this team now, focused on _homeland intervention, enforcement and logistics_, and I don't want it sinking to the usual practices. I like to think that we are better than that."

Romanov scoffs; Barton raises his eyebrows in mocking disbelief.

Steve briefly covers his face with his hands and sighs.

"Idealist," Tony mutters. He doesn't show off his fondness for the guy, and thus – _once again_ – becomes the target of exasperated and mildly offended looks.

It's kind of worth it when Steve lowers his hand from his eyes to his mouth, glancing at Tony and hiding his smile at the same time.

"Better than a cynical money-grabbing man-whore," Romanov retorts.

Tony might have been insulted, if a very similar label couldn't be applied to her, too. Since it can, he merely smirks.

"Hey!"

"Come on, Natasha!"

"That was uncalled for," Bruce informs the woman, misleadingly placid.

"I like to think I'm making the world better by improving myself," Tony tells her.

Romanov quirks her lips. "Not becoming a better man?"

"He prides himself on how bad he is," Barton observes.

Just like that, the mood around the table is light again. They all have superb reaction times, and a certain measure of impulsivity and short tempers go hand in hand with that. Quick to anger, quick to laughter, the whole lot of them. Sure, with Bruce there's the perpetual-rage thing, and Steve's just too damn _timid_ sometimes, but in general they're a bunch of cholerics.

"Speaking of Stark," Romanov pauses and fishes in her pocket, before slapping the cockroachcom onto the table in between the plates, "has he shown you this thing yet?"

"No, he hasn't," Thor replies, leaning over to get a closer look.

"Is that a… bug?" Steve asks, amused and disgusted at the same time. Tony can't wait to see his face when he finally meets the Ant Man.

"Is that a QAM transceiver with limited support A.I.?" Bruce paraphrases, wide-eyed. His hands twitch in the direction of Mark C.

"Aw," Tony teases, "you spoilt it for the other kids." Nevertheless, he clicks his fingers and watches as another Mark C lifts itself from the shelf and flies into his hand. Neat. He hands it over to Bruce for fear that the guy would either green-out or piss himself with eagerness.

Tony is so proud of himself. If that thing works as it should – and he's pretty sure it does, since _he_ is its creator – it will enable long-distance communication with the Hulk, too. Hence the support A.I.

"Aren't you full of surprises?" Romanov mutters, trying hard to not show how impressed she is. "Thermonuclear astrophysics, telecommunication… what next? Hydrometeorology?"

There are laughs all around the table, and Thor uses that pause in conversation to propose another toast.

Idiots, all of them, Tony muses, raising his glass and taking a swig. Do they think he can do shit like creating his suit or keeping the market cornered without being an expert in pretty much _every_ branch of physics, plus engineering and programming? Okay, he's not so hot when it comes to astrophysics, for pretty much the same reason why Sherlock Holmes doesn't know jack squat about astronomy. (And he blames the Holmes simile on Pepper.) Although, lately he's been brushing up on that, whenever he finds some free time that isn't better spent drinking or seducing Steve – because the whole Nine Realms thing just doesn't sit right with him.

Thor's not a big help since he doesn't know squat about the technical side of things, and the project that's shaping up out of this will take more than his lifetime, so Tony wonders how to beget a kid without the actual _begetting_ process.

He'll need a successor. Maybe he should adopt? There must be some certified genii orphans, right?

But, life-partner first, successor second. He's not managed to shackle the Cap to himself thoroughly just yet, so he'll have to work on that some more before he can start looking into progeny – if he wants a kid to end up any better off than himself, he's going to need Steve's future parental influences.

Oh fuck, he's screwed, isn't he? He's just thought of Steve and kids in the same context. Shit, shit, _shit_. This is bad. It's worse than bad. It's-

Completely involuntarily, his eyes meet Steve's over the dinner table. Tony experiences a moment of utter hysteria; he can't breathe, can't move, can't think. It feels like he's dying. A lot like that time when Obadiah paralyzed him and pulled out his arc reactor.

'Tony?' Steve mouths quizzically.

Tony shakes his head and looks down at his plate. He can't really taste the steak, but at least the food is something he can hide behind. It seems to him as if everything was happening behind a glass wall, as if he was just observing the conversations going on around him in slow motion – Bruce expounding on some anecdote, gesticulating more than he normally would for fear of going green; Romanov laughing at what he's saying and unconsciously putting her hand on Barton's forearm; Barton glancing down, startled, and then looking back up to continue listening to whatever Thor's telling him, even though his expression is completely different; the corners of Thor's eyes crinkling in amusement at the knowledge and him reaching for a bottle to refill their glasses.

Tony can't hear them. His ears are ringing.

He grabs a bottle, fills his glass and, almost as if in response to yet another of Thor's toasts, downs it in three gulps. Not enough alcohol content, but better than sobriety.

"Tony?" Steve asks, this time aloud.

"My mind is a dark place," Tony replies with not nearly as much sarcasm as he would have liked. "Getting lost in there can be frightening."

"I bet," Romanov snarks.

"If you say so," Steve humors him. Damn, the man knows _exactly_ when to push and when to back off.

Bruce blinks, thrown by the sudden interruption of his soliloquy, and searches the table for the cause. Romanov quips something that spurs him on, and he turns back to her, drawing Barton's attention as well. Tony catches the words 'lost the second banana, too' and decides he doesn't want to know.

Thor looks from Tony to Steve and back and laughs yet again, in an entirely too good mood tonight. Maybe he's gotten laid and that's why he's so high, and also why he's – _noticed_. The mead's certainly compounding the mirth. He's sitting there playing with his… _hammer_, and looking like a brutish, oblivious Viking. It's easy sometimes to fall for the illusion and dismiss him as the brute-force part of the team. He doesn't know anything about science because they've got magic instead in Asgard-land, but he's smart enough to fit into this group (he _is_ an MD, according to Fury's files). It's just less obvious because unless he gets in a groove he doesn't talk so much and sticks his tacit, solemn warrior impression – which in turn gives him a lot of time to listen and watch. That's probably why he'd got the thing between Tony and Steve pegged in, like, three seconds.

Tony doesn't think they're being _that_ obvious about it (case in point, the rest of the present supposedly intelligent people has yet to cotton on) so he placates himself with the reminder that – _god_.

"Are you lost in the dark again?" Steve inquires, smiling over the rim of his glass, finally relaxed enough to drink something mildly toxic of his own volition, even though it doesn't have any effect on him.

Tony shakes his head. "Just a little too much _joy_ to stomach," he says, pointedly looking at Thor, who's now intermittently guffawing and hiccupping.

"It does require a little accustoming to," Steve allows. "In a few weeks seeing you look happy will stop being so novel. I think."

It takes Tony a few seconds to find words. "Seeing me _what_?" he hisses, putting his utensils down and reaching for a napkin, although that utterly fails to cover just how discomfited he is.

The Cap shakes his head. Tony sighs and appropriates a bottle. He's still too fucking sober for this.

x

It's been eight days, six hours and some spare change since Tony's implied his invitation for his whatever-he-is to live with him. It sounds so _domestic_ when put like that, but so far the reality of their cohabitation is that Tony and Steve kind of migrate in between the penthouse and the guest apartment.

It's largely undefined, and Tony flees away from it into the geek world of gizmos, doohickeys and thingamajigs – to use technical terms.

He only comes out when he has to.

There's been a press conference yesterday. A couple of the so-called reporters put a new meaning to the words 'skimpy outfit.' Tony swears they are trying to entice him, entrap him, and use him as a scandal-fodder. Brilliant strategy: Pulitzer through higher heels and lower neckline. Classy.

His brand new worldview disables him from seeing them as walking offers of free sex and puts them firmly into a category of 'annoying but essentially harmless lowlife.' Fuck, Tony is just so not himself these days. (Might explain why he feels so good.)

Seeing as his life is completely upside-down, he's got the same company in bed for more than a week running, he doesn't even consider fucking floozies that offer themselves, doesn't drink half as much as he'd like and spends his days holed up in a lab, it's little surprise that he finds out about Pepper's return from Europe from JARVIS.

"Sir," the A.I. speaks just as Tony's gearing up to put together the final product of his struggle against aromatic polyamides.

"What?" Tony barks and glares at nothing in particular.

"I was instructed by Miss Potts to not alert you to her impending presence within the Tower."

"Fuck," Tony sums it up succinctly. He misses Pepper – he's missed her yesterday especially, since her shield-like presence reliably derails the majority of the Paris-Hilton-wannabes. Still, her ordering JARVIS to keep her arrival a surprise (Tony likes letting her think that she could manipulate his A.I. against him, but Tony is also fairly certain that he is smarter than to let that happen in actuality) signifies that she is pissed.

Whatever about, he has no idea. He's been unreasonably well-behaved, lately. Unfortunately.

"And when is she going to descend upon me?" he asks dully, setting down his remote and glumly glaring at the vat of sulfuric acid.

"Taking into account the current traffic, Miss Potts should arrive within fifty minutes," JARVIS replies.

No fiber-spinning today, Tony admits to himself, and wishes he had figured out the formula yesterday, so he could have his nice new armor fabric ready by tonight. Never mind, though, it will be ready by the next dinner. And maybe he won't even show it off until the next crisis – he likes to wow like any narcissistic perfectionist megalomaniac does, but pulling a solution out of his ass in the midst of crisis is ever so much more satisfying. He loves that feeling.

"Dog done it," he growls, pulls off his gloves and throws them on the countertop. He leans back against the nearest vertical surface – the HVAC unit – and throws his head back, slamming it into the casing.

He shouldn't feel like he's been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. He's not doing anything wrong. And, fuck it, if he was, it would be none of Pepper's business.

He needs to pull himself together, and to do it without the help of mind-altering substances, so it's either jumping out of the window and hoping that Suit Mark 7 can catch up with him and keep him from planting his face into the asphalt (it did once before, but that's hardly a conclusive proof) or finding Steve. It's ridiculous how much the Cap's mere presence helps him centre himself.

It takes Tony three quarters of an hour to shower, dress and get his ass down to the gym where, according to JARVIS, Steve's destroying some punching bags. About one of those three quarters is spent downloading, watching and re-watching Steve's tumbling routine. Fuck, with dexterity like that, their sex life is going to be… interesting. Needless to say, (after pulling one off) Tony's a little less jittery about his confrontation with Pepper.

The gym is situated below the lab but above the pool, as per Tony's alterations to the blueprints after Loki's spur-of-the-moment renovation effort. Tony takes the elevator.

As soon as he steps foot out, the door slides shut and the cabin sinks toward ground level – to pick up his PA.

It's too late to go and bother Steve for a little tête-à-tête (not necessarily an explicit one; even their verbal interaction can be frightfully satisfying, and Tony wants to die after he realizes what he's just thought, but then again, maybe not). Tony approaches a vending machine – also not his idea, but apparently it's the ideal solution for providing a wide range of drinks to those very few people who actually use that gym – and pushes the buttons which, according to the printed instruction, should make the machine make him a coffee.

The machine spits out a plastic cup, whirs, gurgles and pisses out a dubious brownish liquid.

Tony takes the cup with no faith at all. He moves to the bench in the locker room, where he sits and waits for Pepper to hunt him down. A single half-sip of the suspicious substance in his plastic cup reassures him that he's been right, and it's definitely not fit for human consumption. It even smells off. It's all the plastic inside it – high-density polyethylene, he'd just bet.

There are muted thuds coming from the next room. The sound is low and repetitive. Apparently, Steve's not destroying the latest punching bag so easily. Thumbs up for a Stark Industries product once again.

The elevator door chimes. Apparently, Pepper's asked JARVIS for Tony's location, as he expected she would. The clicking of her heels doesn't keep rhythm at all with the thumping of the Cap's fists.

"Oh, good!" Pepper exclaims, standing in front of the row of lockers in a black power-suit and a metallic blue shirt beneath it, which offsets her coloring in a quite flattering manner. The pearls are a plus.

There's a brief pause in between the thuds, and Tony knows that Steve knows about Pepper's presence and, by induction, also about Tony's.

"You're _that_ happy to see me?" Tony shakes his head in faux-disbelief. "I _must_ be doing something right."

Pepper smothers her amusement in a very professional way. This is why Tony's hired her and kept her and may never let her go. She's the best. "Don't think you get out of anything that easily, Mr Stark. I talked to Nat on the phone – by the way, guess to whom I _haven't_ talked on the phone?"

Oh, so that's why she'd pissed. Tony's not as dull as to repeat his – 'Phil? I thought your first name was Agent…' – joke. Not so much because it's part of a somewhat fond memory of a deceased colleague; more because he's imaginative enough not to need to repeat himself.

"Are you deserting me and engaging in a lesbian affair?" Tony asks loudly, feigning outrage. "I know _I_ wasn't the one who turned you off men!"

Pepper takes a deep breath and lets it out. "I think the problem at hand is quite the other way around," she suggests, hitting bulls-eye.

Fortunately, Tony does have the poker face that lets him not deny or confirm anything (which is as good as a confirmation to anyone who knows him, but also much better than humiliating himself by floundering for words). Since he's feeling a little disarmed, he hands Pepper the cup of the awful, despicable, machine-produced coffee. It's his preemptive revenge.

Pepper looks at him with a mixture of hopeful appreciation and deep suspicion. She takes a sip. And grimaces.

Tony pretends he has no idea what's going on. Pepper, of course, can tell it's bull. Still, she has no defence against his helpful and caring act. (It's not _all_ act. Tony feels as much affection for Pepper as she does for him. It's not exactly negligible.)

"I knew better than to believe the rumors of your changes," she concludes dryly.

"All rumors of my change of heart have been greatly exaggerated," he paraphrases G.B. Shaw.

Pepper is one of the very few people around him who'd recognize the reference. The Cap, Tony would bet, is another. Art's his thing, even though he rarely admits it out loud. It's like a secret pleasure. Tony's endured the Museum of Modern Arts for him, so there must be adoration happening there… somewhere.

Pepper chuckles. She sets the cup down onto an empty stretch of the bench and narrows her eyes. "I can't believe it! You've got the sweetest man on Earth pining away for you, and you don't even notice! And don't tell me that him being a man is a pro-"

"I don't do sweet, Pepper." Tony continues because it's another one of those opportunities he can't let pass and because, yes, he's unfortunately aware of _who_ is the 'sweetest' man on Earth. "Besides, _Steve's_ not pining." He raises his voice and loudly asks: "Cap, are you pining?"

Pepper blanches. It's funny. Apparently, Romanov hasn't told her half as much as she could have. Well, all the _more_ convenient piss-taking opportunities for Tony.

Steve stops punching the bag. He appears in the archway, sinfully sweaty and disheveled, and with a delightfully clueless expression. "No…? I'm not." Hesitant, he takes in Pepper's expression and then Tony's. "Should I be?"

See? Delightfully clueless.

"I don't think so," Tony assures him, "but Pepper here was worried about you."

"I am very well, Miss Potts. There's no need for concern," he assures her, with the expression of the perpetual, quintessential Boy Scout.

"If you're sure," Pepper allows, giving Steve the consummate smile, but Tony (and Steve, too) can tell it's fake.

"Thank you," Steve tells her politely. "If you don't need me…" He gestures behind himself, presumably toward the abandoned punching bag. "Excuse me."

"See you later, Mr Rogers!" Pepper calls after him, because she's professional like that, and for as long as Steve calls her 'Miss Potts' she'll go on calling him 'Mr Rogers.' But she's working on him already, Tony knows that. And Steve will cave, sooner or later.

He's _a dear_.

Pepper, on the other hand, is a dragon that's just been poked awake by a sharp stick in the soft tissue (and who doesn't have a clue that the princess has been since saved and thoroughly ravished).

"You knew!" she accuses Tony in a whisper-shout, and woefully ineffectually tries to shove him.

"Of course I did," Tony replies. It's not like he and Steve have been trying to hide anything from one another – only from the prying busybodies that seem to swarm around them.

"And you just ignore him?" Pepper demands indignantly.

Tony scowls. "Of course I don't." She's just seen them talking to one another. And it's not a secret they spend a lot of time together (alright, it is a bit of a privileged information just _how much_ time they spend together).

"_Stark_!"

Pepper really is hot when she's pissed, Tony muses. All flushed cheeks and trembling limbs. Fuck.

Steve reemerges, hyper-alert and trying to gauge the situation like the battle-hardened leader of soldiers that he is. Pepper's too intent on cursing Tony's lack of empathy to notice him just yet.

"How can you treat him like this?" she hisses, blushing and shaking her fists.

"Like what?" Tony counters.

"Tony, he's…" Pepper pauses. Luckily, she realizes that she's about to cross the line, and doesn't say the four words that are really none of her business. "He deserves better," she concludes instead.

"Is this any of your business, Potts?" Tony inquires. "Do you really think the big A can't take care of himself?"

"I know how you can be," Pepper argues. "I suppose it's better if you pretend you don't see anything than if you took advantage of it."

Damn, Tony muses. They really _do_ all think that Steve's hopelessly naïve and too stupid to tie his own shoelaces. Fuck, like the guy would let himself be taken advantage of? He's perfectly able to rearrange not only people's faces, but their limbs, too, and often enough the only reason why he refrains is that he's just too damn _nice_.

"Can't you grow a pair for once and let him down easy?" Pepper finally formulates a reasonable (to her, that is) request.

Steve catches onto Tony's game then and, obviously, doesn't like it. Tony figures it should be the guy's call, anyway, what they tell and don't tell Pepper. Pepper's not a threat, and sometimes Tony wonders if Steve is physically capable of being territorial over anything but his country and his race's right to the planet they're occupying, but he has to admit that so far he hasn't given Steve any serious cause for concern.

Huh. Apparently, Captain America can make even a faithful, committed relationship not only a palatable, but an attractive prospect. Who would have thought?

"In this instance, your concern is misplaced, Miss Potts," Steve speaks up, looking at Tony for a few seconds and accepting the implied permission to disclose whatever he wishes (they do work together very well), before he returns his attention to Pepper.

Pepper has, by this time, finally caught up. "You're… Damn it, Stark! Can't you keep it in your pants for five minutes?"

"If I must," Tony concedes. "Not really applicable in this situation."

Steve's growing rapidly more and more uncomfortable with the topic of the discussion. He needs his privacy – another novel concept that Tony's had to get used to but, boy, has it been worth it! Now it even annoys him that Pepper has the gall to come and interrogate them and think that she's entitled to the _intimate_ details of their… _relationship_.

About time Tony's learnt to apply the term, if only in his thoughts.

"I…" Pepper turns from Tony to Steve, probably about to start cajoling, but Steve shows her a shade of his battle face and Pepper backs down with a single word: "…apologise."

Steve nods. "I am thankful for your concern, but I ask you to not question either myself or Tony further."

She nods again. "I will see you later. Tony, there'll be a dossier on your table. In the lab, because I know you won't go into the _office_-office until next month. Read it. I'll know if you won't, and JARVIS likes me."

That sounds suspiciously like a threat, but Tony lets it go. As Pepper disappears round a corner, he yells: "Yes, butt out!" and tries to ignore Steve's disapproving frown.

This is who he is – a rude, obnoxious asshole who needs to have the last word.

x

Tony's failed to account for how it would feel the next time they're sitting around the oval table and pretending to agree on a strategy for their next battle.

He's as familiar with their enemy as creative hacking allows, and Steve getting into his spanglex should be hot, and not make him think about mortality and related issues.

_Has he lost his mind? Can he see or is he blind_? Tony muses, smoothing down today's t-shirt. It's an AC/DC day – as it always is when he's requested to save the world. _He's T.N.T._ He really is. _He wins the fight_.

"Isn't that correct, Stark?" Fury asks in a tone that expresses his awareness that Tony hasn't been listening to him at all. He's trying to make it look like Tony's a fucking snot-nosed midget schoolboy ignoring his teacher's (boring) lecture in favor of his gameboy.

"You can kiss my wealthy, privileged, anarchist ass," Tony mutters, not taking his eyes off of Steve's spanglexed upper arm. Delicious.

"God bless America," Bruce mutters under his breath.

Steve tries to meld with the uncomfortable chair, and Tony grins when Thor bursts out into loud, rich laughter.

Barton pretends to re-read the particulars of their mission, whereas Romanov rolls her eyes skyward and asks: "Must you broadcast the details of your sex-life, Stark?"

Tony would say something biting in response, except that Steve's turning a lovely pink color, and he's really too distracted to formulate any psyche-shattering wisecracks.

"You can call me 'God' if you like," Tony says instead, and does have the presence of mind not to vocalize the: 'and I'll bless America anytime he'll consent.'

Groans sound all around.

It's the Cap who's helplessly grinning (having filled in the unspoken line), hiding behind the S.H.I.E.L.D.-provided tablet, and Thor, who's still in the throes of his laughing fit, that disrupt Fury's attempt to lead a serious conversation here.

Really. It's another ordinary day at the office.

Tony hasn't given any such permission, but his mouth is stretching sideways and upwards anyway.


End file.
